Brave New Bras

Down to two bras that “sort of” fit, and those shredding more daily, I face facts. I must go bra shopping.

I consider ordering some bras online, but one bra’s stock number was illegible, the other one discontinued. Not to mention I’ve gained… shall we say ten pounds? Sure, ten pounds.

As a professional bra fitter for Maidenform in a former life, I suspect I might have to go up in my band size. There was no way around actually visiting a brick and mortar store. I was going to have to actually try the bras on before buying. And somewhere in the last ten years, I have gone from a woman who likes to shop, occasionally, to a woman who mostly orders not only clothes, but sometimes even groceries, online. Shopping is no longer a pleasant prospect.

As in, I’d rather wrassle a herd of hissing possums than shop.

I brave the traffic for the 20 mile trip to the nearest Kohl’s. They had the best selection in my area the last time I shopped for bras… shall we say five years ago? Sure, five years ago. No one wears bras as old as a first grader, right? Thank goodness Kohl’s still has a good selection, and they still have the super sale rack of the previous season’s styles that I remembered.

I line bras up on my left arm, looping my hand through the hangers as I remember from my bra saleswoman days. Look at me-- I can carry many, many bras! Let’s see, four in my old size, four in the next larger band size. No underwire, beige, rose, lilac, and “walnut” colors, some with tags promising “lift,” some telling me they’ll keep me cool, some sporty styles. Cause I’m so sporty.

To the dressing rooms. Nice, there’s a vacant stall. Hang up the bras. Wait—there are only two hooks on the wall? Where am I supposed to put my clothes? I need one hook for the bras to try on, one for the keepers, one hook for the rejects, and another hook for my clothes. Is Kohl’s so hard up they can’t put more than two hooks in a dressing room? Grumble. Haven’t tried on the first bra yet.

Disrobe the four layers of clothing above the waist (hey—it’s a chilly 40 degrees in the Carolinas, brrr), try to ignore the static electricity sending blue sparks flying, hope the louvered dressing room door is not showing anyone the white-haired lady contorting herself to hook up the first bra she’s tried on in five years. Who thinks it’s a good idea to put louvered doors on dressing rooms anyway? Why do most bras hook in the back and not the front? Are my arms shorter than they used to be? Sheesh.

Okay, it’s too snug. The old band size is not going to cut it. Guess the old bras must’ve stretched out just a wee bit. The cups look funny, too. Gamely, I try on several more in my old size, since there can be variations in sizing between brands. Nope.

Deep breath. Okay, going up a band size is not the end of the world. I try on the first one in the new size. The band fits great, but the cups look like someone is trying to put too much batter in the cupcake pan. So to speak. But this cannot be. To go up a band size and a cup size? Nah. Not me.

I keep trying the different brands, somewhat optimistically hoping there’s one that fits. But, alas. After bra number eight, I bid adieu to the fair boobs of youth.

I re-robe myself in the four layers. Delegate the rejected bras to, as the Kohl’s sign says, the “we’ll put them back” rack outside the dressing room.  

Okay, so it’s the new (doesn’t that sound better than “bigger”?) band size and maybe a new cup size, too. Ouch. I remember as an under-endowed teenager how I longed, really and truly longed for more hoohas to fill a bra bigger than a triple A. Yes, bras do come that small.

Now I understand why my bigger busted friends complain that smaller is better. Never did I dream I’d have bazumbas at this point in my life, but perimenopause, menopause, and beyond have unexpected consequences even for the formerly small busted woman. Big consequences. Why, oh why, so big?

The rest of the story: I find some bras that fit and are moderately comfortable. They still come off as soon as I get home from work, most days. They are new, not stretched out and shredding. I can afford them. My breasts are healthy. That’s the good news.

The bad news is that bra shopping is udderly exhausting. It takes me two days to recover from all that driving, dressing, undressing, revelations, reevaluations, recriminations, and ultimately, acceptance of the body I’ve got.

Dear Kohl’s—thanks a million. See you in...er, five years. 

Many Paws and a raffle for a free book!

If you agree with me that menopause bites, then it may not be too much of a stretch to go from menopause to Many Paws. Woof.

Don’t hate me because I love puns. 

Many Paws is a new “altered book” by writer and artist, Susan DeGarmo. She loves puns, too. From the flaming red-orange cover to the detachable last page of purple irises that can be converted to a hot flash fan, DeGarmo acknowledges the pitfalls that many of us experience during “the change.”

Many Paws is Susan’s adroit way of disguising the subject of the book, since “no southern lady is going to have a book laying round that  says ‘Menopause.’”

However, if you leave the book on your coffee table, the ladies from church may be startled to flip open the pop-up book and see artwork of a reclining female nude, covered in strategic places with long-eared white “hares,” since “Now gray hairs are everywhere!”

But, honestly, church ladies aren’t as easily shocked as they used to be. Especially if they are struggling with changes of their own.

What it is: Many Paws, Susan DeGarmo's altered book from Meaux Books that is customizable. You can put your own photos, or those of a loved one, over the heads of some of the figures in the book. If you give the book to a friend, for example, you can put her face in the book.

How it came to be: DeGarmo was teaching a class about making altered books while having a hot flash, and Voila! Many Paws came to be.

What makes it unique: It’s a pop-up book for adults! It has moving parts! It has (tasteful) nudity! It socks menopause a big one in the kisser!

Conclusion: A great gift book for anyone in or approaching menopause. Even those women who are having an "easier" time with the change will appreciate the humor and pathos. The art work is fun and inspiring!

Make a comment below to be entered in a raffle for a free copy of Many Paws. One entry per person, please.

http://www.manypawsforwomen.com/

Disclosure: I was provided copies of the books, but the opinions expressed are my own. 

A Poem Made for Menopause

What’s that Smell in the Kitchen?

All over America women are burning dinners.
It's lambchops in Peoria; it's haddock
in Providence; it's steak in Chicago
tofu delight in Big Sur; red
rice and beans in Dallas.
All over America women are burning
food they're supposed to bring with calico
smile on platters glittering like wax.
Anger sputters in her brainpan, confined
but spewing out missiles of hot fat.
Carbonized despair presses like a clinker
from a barbecue against the back of her eyes.
If she wants to grill anything, it's
her husband spitted over a slow fire.
If she wants to serve him anything
it's a dead rat with a bomb in its belly
ticking like the heart of an insomniac.
Her life is cooked and digested,
nothing but leftovers in Tupperware.
Look, she says, once I was roast duck
on your platter with parsley but now I am Spam.
Burning dinner is not incompetence but war.
--Marge Piercy

Just as T. S. Eliot’s “Prufrock” character ("The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock") measured out his life in coffee spoons, Piercy’s speaker measures her life with Tupperware leftovers. Sometimes you’re the roast duck—others you’re the Spam. Relationships and aging are not for the cowardly. Men, be very afraid.

My Voice is Here

After blogging for over two years, I left what felt like my first truly “negative” comment the other day. 

I’ve second guessed myself a lot since then. As both a blogger and an avid blog reader, I’d decided from the start that if I didn’t have anything positive to say, I would not say anything.

Knowing that it does take some effort, if not downright courage, to put oneself out there by publishing a post, I’d vowed to take the high road. I have tender feelings myself and want to show respect for other blogger’s work. After all, there are MANY people who are more than willing to express their criticisms, so my voice is not needed when I disagree with a blogger’s position, I felt.

Even if I differed vehemently with someone, I didn’t want to be part of the snarling pack. Acts of kindness, paying it forward, Little Miss Sunshine—that was me.  Not rocking the boat, damn it, being the nice girl. Argh. I can be such a wimp. But I’d rather err on the side of wimpy, than to hurt someone’s feelings or stifle someone’s right to express herself. That was my choice.

But a post by an “expert” on HuffPost50 got me riled up. Reading along, it was all good until about half-way through when the writer paused in her advice to midlife women about diet and exercise. She said something that made it all very personal to me. 

To paraphrase, she actually repeated that ancient and hard to dispel notion that anyone who is overweight or out of shape is … lazy, sluggish, unenlightened AND lacks the passion needed for healthy living. Find your passion, and the weight will fall off easily, she claimed.

She just said I lack passion.

LACK PASSION.

Whoa. Passion?

Calm down, I told myself. It’s just a blog post. Be kind. She’s misinformed, judgmental, holier-than-thou, yes, but let it go.

I tried to dismiss my outrage.

I failed.

I commented, as calmly as I could, in a few sentences, ending with the charge that she had just added one more voice to the chiding chorus, to those who wag fingers at midlife women struggling with their weight.

We hold down jobs that while perhaps aren't deeply fulfilling, keep the bills paid. Or, laid-off, are looking for employment in a workplace that openly discriminates based on our age and our looks. We may commute for hours, care for elders, children, spouses, homes. 

We’re trying to get another year out of a 15-year old car, or keep enough cash on hand for the bus. We do not need one more rebuke, one more expert telling us we are too stupid or too lacking in passion to be the same dress size we were 20 years ago. 

Because our clothing size is the only issue we have to worry about, right? I ended with note that she had “not advanced the dialogue on women’s health issues.”

Not particularly proud of my anger, fearing I was being a bit Joan of Arc, I hit “post” on my comment.

I don’t plan on making negative comments a habit, but maybe there is something to the notion that at menopause, some women find their voices (thank you, Magnolia Miller at The Perimenopause Blog). 

I think it’s happening to me. My voice. MY VOICE IS HERE.

It’s been a long time coming.

Through Menopausal Eyes: Lessons from the Wizard of Oz

How does The Wizard of Oz remind me of menopause?

Watching the 1939 film with 16 year-old Judy Garland through menopausal eyes—the only way I see these days—I reflect on the alien world Dorothy finds herself in.

She’s not in Kansas anymore, and neither am I.  Someone has died, in Dorothy’s case the Wicked Witch of the West, flattened under a farmhouse.

Some days I feel as though my old self has died, the weight of a house collapsing on my head. Some days I feel like I’M the wicked witch, times 10.

Dorothy is growing and changing. She will never be the same after Oz, and I am going through my own emotional evolution/revolution, one that I didn’t surely didn’t anticipate. No way will I be quite the same after weathering this twister.

Watching TWOO this time, I focus on Dorothy’s bravery. Plunked down in a land where she knows no one, told to walk to a faraway wizard for help, she doesn’t hesitate. She starts down the yellow-brick road, all alone, with only Toto for company.  How very strong is that? I want to emulate her fearlessness.

She meets those wonderful friends along the way: the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, the Lion. They are seekers, like her, and I’ve met friends on my meno journey without whom I’d have little hope of making it to the other side of this emotional storm. Friends are a main ingredient in the prescription for menopause survival.

Dorothy already has the brain, heart, and courage that her friends seek. I have these too, although many days they seem to have shrunk to the size of the grains of sand in the witch’s hourglass.

What about that hourglass? Dorothy watches the grains trickle down what she believes may be the last minutes of her life. This passage of life and my upcoming 55^th birthday reminds me of my mortality, prodding me to set priorities with a sense of urgency I may have lacked previously.

It’s time for me to pay attention—to do what I have been putting off—to take risks. To write the book I’ve been mulling over for years, for Pete’s sake. To save up for the trip to Italy, a dollar at a time if that’s the only way.

I can’t wait around for the Good Witch Glenda in a sparkly gown and magic wand to point me in a new direction. 

I’ve got to get going, on my way, to the new land. Whether the road is through Oz or Kansas, I don’t know.

But here goes.

Not a Mama at Menopause

Apparently I have some “inner work” to do. Lately my brain is whirling like an Oklahoma twister. Lots of debris swirling around, transforming, shifting the old ideas about who I am.

Scary stuff, sometimes, but apparently necessary. A new phase of life has been forced upon me, whether I like it or not.

Now that I have officially passed the ability to have children without having any children, I am second guessing my childfree life.

I did not see this little “gift” of the Big M. coming, but here I am, feeling a bit bereft.

For the most part, I am content that birthing and rearing a child has not been part of my life. Of all the many reasons, (some under my control and some not) why I am not a mother, perhaps the strongest reason is that I don’t have much of a mother-instinct.

Not every woman has a strong mother-instinct. To put it mildly, this isn’t a popular sentiment to voice. I like babies and children; I never had a strong urge to have one of my own. This may seem bizarre and unnatural, but I always kind of smugly congratulated myself for realizing this lack of motherly feelings and then not fighting against these feelings and having kids anyway.

There were sweet moments when I enjoyed cuddling other people’s babies, truly marveling at the mysteries of birth. But when I handed the babies back, I was fairly happy to do so. Some women have an almost unbearable urge to have children, and motherhood is the fulfillment of a dream for them. They are meant to mother.

I respect that mothering need enormously, even if my childlessness has made me an outsider to a lot of what is central to most women’s lives. Childlessness makes me a bit defensive, too, as if I need to justify why I’m childless, or explain that I’m not evil, or emotionless because I’m not a mother.

For instance, I feel obliged to note that by teaching college students, I have had a turn at being a mother figure. Our student population here is a vulnerable one that often needs a shoulder to cry on, parental advice and motherly encouragement. There’s more than the typical amount of tears, tragedy, and trauma on this campus in a military community.

Maybe this is the mothering I was meant to do? Maybe if I had children of my own, I wouldn’t have as much energy to give to these students who do really need me, although I know plenty of teaching mothers who also boundlessly love their students.

I have had a fulfilling ten years giving myself to my students, and they have given back to me, too. Maybe I can be okay, knowing that I have loved these students, some who did not have loving biological parents to sustain them.

This does not change the revelation that I do have some grieving to get through, now that the door to motherhood is closed.

Even though I am still mostly content with an official end to my fertility, I have some truly unexpected, startling, sadness. I felt confident that I had already worked through my feelings about not being a mother prior to the final knell menopause brought to my fertility.

In reading about menopause, especially Magnolia Miller’s wonderful The Perimenopause Blog, I’ve found that grieving associated with this time of life is not unusual, whether one is a mother or not. Magnolia says we must acknowledge we are “mourning a loss" and "coming to terms with a new life on the other side of that loss.”

But the feeling of permanent loss, of no chance of a do-over, of not ever having the photogenic kind of family life that dominates social media, tv, and magazines does sting. Facebook, in particular, is soul-sucking for the childless woman. Some non-moms have deleted their Facebook accounts after it became too painful to look at other people's babies and children.

Even when we are savvy enough to realize that Facebook is mostly how people want to present their lives under best case scenario conditions, we still tend to buy into the seeming perfection. How can my childless life measure up?  Because that photo-shopped gourmet meal at the rustic table with the clean, smiling children, Dad carving the turkey, that's what family life is really like, right? At least some of the time.

I do grieve what I have missed and will never have, and I need others to understand that they can make me feel like an alien

Unfortunately, my grieving won’t be rushed, no matter how much I want to shake it off and move on to this new life ahead of me.

Cut the Clamor: Accessories for the Disturbed

In yet another installment of Tales from Menopause…

I have squishy foam ear plugs stuffed in my ears. They come in a little cardboard box from the drugstore, and sell for about $2.00. Such a small price to pay for saving a smidge of sanity.

With these plugged-up ears, I can hear my own breathing, my heartbeat, and not much else.

Menopause has made sounds that were formerly mildly annoying rise to the level of perhaps justifiable homicide. I really don’t want to kill people because they make noises like rapping a teaspoon against a coffee cup. It’s against my high moral code. And I don’t think I’d look nice in an orange jumpsuit.

So these foam earplugs have become my latest menopausal accessory. They only come in ivory, but I think I’ll write the manufacturer and ask for an array of colors to coordinate with my wardrobe. Some shades of blue, perhaps? That way the plugs would even match my dominant mood.

But I digress. It’s a Saturday morning, it’s 8:00, and a light rain is falling. I’m drinking coffee, my extra-special delicious Bananas Foster weekend blend, and reading about Janet Evanovich’s fictional heroine, Stephanie Plum, ramming her Buick into a murderer’s sedan. I live vicariously through Steph’s kick-butt bounty hunting adventures. Yet one more way I keep myownself out of jail. Life is good.

But what’s this? The sound of a chainsaw breaks into my reverie. From my back door, I see a neighbor-man whacking twigs off a tree. The twigs are an inch in diameter and could have been dispatched with a sharp pair of clippers. Instead, he’s fired-up a gas-fume spewing Husqvarna with a window-rattling volume. If I remedied the situation with a Molotov cocktail, no one would even detect the small explosion.

I shake off the bloodthirsty notion, remind myself I am a woman of peace. Or of shattered pieces? I reach for the trusty foam earplugs, breathe deeply, and yet another potentially headline-making crisis is averted. The neighbor-man lives for another day of power-tool abuse.

Even the non-menopausal may find chain-saws annoying, you say? What’s the big deal? Ah, but volume has only a little to do with the reaction of a menopausal woman to sound.

What about a spoon being scraped along the side of a cereal bowl? Some years ago, I remember a dear friend, Lu, who was going through her man-o-pause—I mean menopause—telling me she had given her husband a plastic bowl and a plastic spoon to eat his cereal. The racket he made eating his All-Bran from a china bowl had become torture to her.

Since she loved her husband and dreaded the nuisance of replacing him, she hit upon the brilliant solution of the plastic bowl and spoon. It’s really hard to make an objectionable racket with plastic, especially after you’ve seen a homicidal gleam in your dear wife’s glittering eyes. The marriage was saved.

At the time Lu told me the story, I was blissfully ignorant of menopause, and chuckled at her tale. Wow—Lu is such a funny person—how she exaggerates! Ha-ha!

But now with the scales fallen from my eyes, I see Lu was saintly in her menopausal restraint. I hold Lu in high regard, striving to live up to her peaceable standards.

I don’t believe she killed a soul during her menopause. Or if she did, she buried the bodies deep.

That reminds me… maybe I’ll go sharpen my shovel… just in case.

Menopause Mayhem

Last night, in despair, I started a letter to Menopause. I told her exactly what I thought of her, and why. It felt great to let off some steam, but the letter was morbid and whiney.  Scratch that. Time for plan B.

I’m forming a girl gang. I’m pretty sure I know a few blogging bombshells who’ll join the posse. Our cause: murder Menopause.

I’m ready to rumble instead of mumble.

You’ve been our foe, sapping our mojo, hurting us high and low and now you’re gonna get a body blow. The day of reckoning is here, Miss Thang. Better look out for our gang.

We got the eye of the tiger, my mob squad and me. Time is short, you better flee. This is how it’ll be. You, face down on the mat, splat. We ain’t taking it no more, daughter of a cur. Your life gonna pass your eyes in a blur.

Menopause, look over your shoulder. Be best for you to crawl under a boulder. One night, we’re going to catch you, you crone. Mayhem-ugly-tragic for you alone. We’re going to have the last laugh, the best laugh, the laugh that makes you frown. You hear that bell? Yeah, well, we’re taking your crown.

We’re packing heat, and Menopause, you’re going down.

There now, I feel better already. Anyone for a black cohosh tea?

Are you ready to join the Mob Against Menopause? Please sign below. 

Take My Menopause, Please

Henny Youngman and Herman Melville are my muses today.

Henny Youngman, comedian, was famous for his line, “Take my wife… please.” I feel the same way about my menopause.

Without sharing too much, technically, I’m not even in menopause. Not totally. But if this is perimenopause, I’ve been in in for seven years. Seven years.

What else could I have done with the last seven years of my life besides languish in anguish in perimenopause?

If I had gone back to school, I could be a surgeon by now. I could have built my own log cabin, gnawing the logs for it with my teeth.

I could have walked the Appalachian trail at least 3 times, round-trip.

I could have learned to water-ski, trained and run in several marathons, grown hair down to my knees, built a raft and sailed to Tahiti, gotten an engineering degree and gone to work for Microsoft, climbed every mountain in the Alps, driven a Subaru to the southernmost tip of South America, founded a new religion, watched Casablanca 2,433 times, learned to play the piano.

Equipped with only a nail-file, I might have sculpted a block of marble into larger-than-life dolphins leaping from waves.

But nooooo, I’ve been too busy having perimenopausal symptoms: crying, breaking out in acne, having migraines, sleeping, not sleeping, crying, fighting fatigue to the point of nausea, sweating, aching, moisturizing my dry skin, having night sweats, crying, having heart palpitations, fog brain, gaining weight, waving buh-bye to my libido, dragging myself out of bed every morning with my mind screaming NO!, buying Kleenex in bulk at Sam’s Club, crying, and having nightmares. Oh, and being depressed to the point of crying quite a lot.

So this whole perimenopause-menopause never-ending-bundle-of-fun thing? I’ve decided it’s not for me.

 No thanks. Take it, please, like Henny used to say about his wife.

Come to think of it, I’ll add that famous line from Herman Melville’s classic character, “Bartleby the Scrivener,” and say, “I prefer not to.” I have not fully appreciated Bartleby until this moment of clarity. Bartleby was right. (Whenever someone asked Bartleby to do something, his reply was "I prefer not to.")

Are there stages or phases in your life that you’ve wanted to reject? Times you felt like, no, none of that for me, no thanks?

Nutty in the Family Tree

In doing a little genealogical research, I discovered that a possible relative from the 1500s got into trouble with an ax. According to the records, he killed two people with the ax, and his brother helped him bury the bodies.

He was hanged. His brother was found not guilty.

I am not a violent person and don’t believe in solving problems with violence.

However, I am in menopause. I have had more violent thoughts in the last year than in all the 53 prior years combined.

I get mad. I get red-faced. I haven’t had a screaming fit so far, but who knows how long I can hold out? I have fantasized, lightly, about offing a couple of difficult people, but haven’t laid a hand on anyone in violence. Yet.

I had a student a few years back who told me in confidence that if he ever got a fatal diagnosis, he was prepared with a list of people he would send to the next world before he died. Laughing it off at the time, now I have toyed with a short list of people who would improve the world greatly by leaving it. Just in case.

Does it make me a bad person if I want to make the world a better place?

No, don’t dial 911. This is a post filed under “humor,” okay? There wasn’t a category for “humor in poor taste.”

I’m not going to take action on my little fancies. And come on, if you’ve ever read a novel where someone was killed who needed killing, and said to yourself, “Yeah! Woot!” are you really so very different from menopausal me?

If you’ve read The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo series, you know what I mean about being happy that Lisbeth had a golf club handy at just the right moment. With my little personalized fantasies of minor blood and guts, I’ve just strayed momentarily over to non-fiction for my subject matter.

I have moments where my cloud of generalized rage makes me think about Mr. T, from the old TV show, The A Team. Remember his line, “I pity the fool!”?

Sometimes when I hear a noise in the night, instead of getting scared, I think, “Go ahead and break-in to my house, knucklehead. I’ve got a hickory walking cane with your name on it.” Then the noisy squirrel or possum on the porch, sniffing my bad karmic energy, wisely runs away.

I do pity the fool who may give me a reason to go berserk in a just cause, like defending myself or others.

I’m not proud of my possible ancestor, don’t get me wrong. But in a tiny, trifling way, through menopause I may understand the homicidal urge just a weensy bit better.

I stay away from axes, but I do keep a hammer in my desk drawer in case I have a sudden impulse to “hang a picture.”

How about you? Any occasional homicidal fantasies? Random thoughts of violence? Please don’t forget, this is humor, people, humor. Have an ax-free day!

What Not to Wear: The Menopause Edition

No matter the weather, this woman is warm. Flushed. Burning up.

I don’t really get hot flashes, the way other women describe them. That counts for “lucky” in menopause. I do have three temperature stages: a warm, a warmer, and a heck no, you may not turn up the heat stage.

It’s in the 50s at night here; the windows are open, the curtains are fluttering. I’m in shorts and a tank top. I’m feeling fine!

I told a friend I fantasized about icebergs. I do! If I had an iceberg in my back yard, I would so throw down a faux fur blanket--don’t want my skin to stick to the ice--and lie down on that icy little bit of heaven. My heart races to think of it. Or is that just a menopausal palpitation?

Since there is no iceberg in my backyard, I do have my alternative. An industrial size ice gel pack. Yes, instead of the hot-water bottle or electric blanket of the non-menopausal, I cuddle up to my ice pack each night. Ahh, bliss.

Getting dressed for work has gotten complicated. I’m no exhibitionist, but how can I keep cool while maintaining my middle-aged school teacher façade?

The best I can do in fall and winter is a sleeveless shell with a ¾ sleeve open cardigan, paired with loose cottony slacks. While I’m not thrilled with showing my upper arms (there is muscle in there, it just has a little padding on top), I don’t hesitate to whip off the cardigan and show my wings. If someone doesn’t like it, aye carumba, they can look the other way.

Clothing items and accessories that are on my “menopausal what-not-to-wear” list: turtlenecks of any neck style/sleeve length, blazers, boots, scarves, heavy winter coats, fluffy-heavy bath robes, flannel nighties, slankets, snuggies, anything wool.

I’m most sad about the boots and scarves. I love the look of boots on other people, but they are impossibly hot and confining for me. Scarves, so fashionable right now, would do wonders for disguising my middle-aged neck, but I would positively suffocate. As Nora Ephron said in the title of her funny treatise on women at mid-life, “I feel bad about my neck.” But not bad enough to choke myself in a scarf of any kind.

So I soldier on, as do millions of other menopausals, sleeveless through the fall and winter, hatless, coatless, with two spare sticks of Secret antiperspirant in the desk drawer. My portable fan lifting my locks, I soldier on.

That woman you see, running barefoot in the snow, skiing in her skivvies, snowshoeing wearing only a smile? That might be me. Please don’t call 911.

 I’m just having a menopause what-not-to-wear moment.

Do you have any tips for staying cool? Do you fight the battle of the thermostat? Suggestions gratefully accepted!

Menopause bites

Menopause bites, and I have the hickey to prove it.

I have medium fair skin with sun damage (hey, in the seventies we hadn’t even heard of worrying about our skin’s future after sun damage). Now in the early stages of meno, my neck and upper chest look like they’ve been gnawed on by chipmunks. I just started noticing the redness over the past few months, but I think it’s been going on for a while now and I’d just ignored it, thought it was sunburn or a slight flushing from exertion. 

Then I realized I hadn’t been out in the sun. My latest exertion doesn’t go much beyond climbing a couple of flights of stairs. It’s not sunburn or flushing, and it shows no signs of going away. 

It’s not itchy, not flaky, (thank goodness for small favors), just red, blotchy and unappealing.

Menopause has already made me humble about my appearance, and now this.

Isn’t it enough that although my weight is the same, my waist has disappeared? Can’t menopause be satisfied with the plain old age spots on my hands and cheeks? Must my sagging jaw line now compete with the neon signage of the red blotches on my chest that scream “She’s in menopause! Ha-ha-ha! Look at that tomato skin!”

Some women might say, “Oh, just put a turtleneck on and forget it!” Point well-taken, but living in the South and already being “warm” in general from roller-coaster hormones has me unwilling to turtleneck-it. What have I got to be ashamed of?

So I’m going to brash it out. The plan: wear my usual v-necks, and dare anyone to look twice at me, yes, getting my glow on. 

Go ahead, I just dare ya.

Menopause meets an earthquake.

I was in a webinar on the second floor of our library with about 15 other people when the earthquake hit coastal North Carolina and the community college campus where I work. We are in a town with several military bases.

What went through my mind when the room started to sway, buck, and roll:

1.      I’m having a “spell”

2.      My meds are going haywire

3.      We’re under attack

4.      I didn’t hear any explosion

5.      The power is still on, so it can’t be Armageddon

6.      The other people in the room are feeling it too

7.      I’m going to fall off my chair

8.      When is this going to stop

9.      This is too quiet to be an earthquake

10.   Where’s the nearest nuclear plant

11.   I’m freaking out, the room is closing in on me

12.   Are we really going to sit here like nothing happened?

By this time the woman leading the webinar realized something was up and we weren’t paying any attention to her. Our building is shaking, we told her.

Her location is Manhattan, next to Madison Square Garden.

Then she said her building was shaking, too, and we heard fire alarms going off in the background. She apologized for the noise and went on with the webinar. Knowing New York was shaking too, was frankly terrifying to me. I was thinking multiple attacks near the 10-year anniversary of 9/11.

We asked her: Don’t you need to leave your building if the fire alarms are going off? Nah, she said, and kept going with her presentation. One tough cookie. Or a person in deep denial.

I never absorbed another word from her for the next 10 minutes. Just sat there trying not to freak out any more than I already was. FINALLY, we left the building. When we got outside, a student told us there had been an earthquake in Virginia.

This might not seem like good news, but compared to what I had been thinking, it was a huge relief. Thankfully, it seems that no one was seriously hurt.

LESSON LEARNED: Don’t wait for permission to leave if the building is shaking for any reason. Evacuate the building. Get the heck out of there!

Hopefully I won’t have to put this lesson learned into effect for another 50 years. Now, let me check the weather channel to see when hurricane Irene is due to arrive!

Murder by Menopause

Top 10 people, events, and things I almost committed murder over, even if I wasn't sure whom to murder.

Brought to you by menopause.

1. the young lady in the supermarket who blocked the whole 2-cart-wide aisle while she debated interminably over potato chips and ignored me trying to push my cart down the aisle on a day I was exceedingly exhausted and did not want to be in the supermarket in the first place
2. the hairy guy in the huge white pickup truck who flipped me the bird. Why, you ask? I had the audacity to signal I was going to make a left turn, causing him to have to slow down slightly for 3 seconds
3. the pimple on my 54 year-old chin
4. the neighbors behind me who have every square inch of their yard covered with plastic toys and swings and slides that their children never play with, but I have to look at every day. I know, I know, free country, blah, blah, blah.
5. the person who does not respond to my smile and hello but walks by me like I'm invisible. I want to stick my leg out and trip her as she goes by with her nose in the air. Yes, are you amazed by my emotional maturity?
6. the college students on my campus—COLLEGE STUDENTS-- who cough and hack and then with full p-tuie sound effects SPIT a huge wad of mucous out on the sidewalk just a few feet away from me and my sandal-clad feet. Isn't there an ordinance from about the year 1790 that says “don't spit on the sidewalk?” Am I wrong to expect common sense from anyone at any time?
7. the same as above who spit their chewing gum on the sidewalk where in about 1,000 years it may finally decompose
8. the same as above who bypass the convenient outside cigarette butt collectors, jauntily flipping their butts on the ground outside the doors to campus buildings where they will remain for 25 years or until someone making minimum wage comes along to sweep the butts up. Perhaps throwing their trash on the ground for another person to pick up is their way of putting America back to work?
9. the girl talking on the cell phone in the bathroom stall who then leaves the bathroom without washing her hands. Was she raised by wolves? Sorry, wolves. Didn't mean to insult you.
10. using the last pill in my pack of Prempro.
    Don't worry, my husband took my bullets away.

12 Helpful Items to Help Get You Through Menopause

In no particular order, just like my hormonal state...

1. Miracle Foot Repair with aloe. You won't believe what happens to your feet.
2. An e-reader. I can't tell you how many times another book to read (without having to go to the bookstore) has kept me from doing something drastic! My Kindle has kept me out of the headlines!
3. The nicest cotton sheets you can afford. My favorites are from JC Penney, QVC, and Home Goods. Cotton for all those hot (not in a good way) nights!
4. A lighted, magnifying mirror. Yes, this item is a double-edged sword. You can see all the crazy changes to your face, but without it you can't see where to pluck or apply makeup.
5. A brand of makeup you can live with. For me, it's mineral makeup. I grew up a non-makeup girl, and still don't wear it all the time. But some days, we can't face the world without the war paint. Is that a pun?
6. A scent that always makes you feel like at least you smell nice. Nothing too heavy! Don't be one of those girls that make people cringe when they find themselves in the elevator with you. I like Amazing Grace from Philosophy. It's around $50.00 but worth the splurge for the way it makes me feel I'm still feminine. And I'm still using my bottle from about a year ago.
7. Dove soap.
8. Vaseline Intensive Care body lotion. In a 55 gallon drum size.
9. Era free and clear, or the color-free/odor free/detergent of your choice. Wash your undies in this, and use the 2 rinse cycle. Keeps irritation at bay. Enough said. Thanks to my fabulous G.P., Dr. Janice Dickerson, for this suggesting this one.
10. That reminds me. A great doctor who is in your corner. If she's a woman, more better. Sorry, men doctors.
11. A great blogging buddy or two. Nothing beats knowing you are not (totally) crazy, and that you are not alone. Thanks, Home Reared Chef!
12. If you can, adopt a homeless pet. My pet who sticks to me like glue is Smokey, a beautiful and loving long haired cat who was living in the woods with her kittens. We found homes for the kittens, and now Smokey follows me around and sleeps next to my pillow. While loving me unconditionally, she reminds me that my purpose in life is to open doors for cats.

confessions of a sick person -- rambling post

Have you ever had doctors fighting over you? Talk about a strange feeling.

One doc thinks I had Lyme disease. The other doc thinks I had Rocky Mountain spotted fever or human Parvo. I know, I thought only dogs got Parvo, too.

 

Makes me feel special, and not in a good way.

I just want to get rid of the random joint pain and fatigue, so that my so-called life may continue. And I want to lose the eye floaters that are spiraling around my vision like orbiting planets. And the migraines. I’ve had migraines since I was 12, but nowadays they are way too frequent. Menopause and its myriad of symptoms is not helping with any of this.

My advice: stay away from ticks and just say “no” to Menopause.

I’m so tired of being tired, I’m tired of thinking so much about my mental and physical health. I know everyone around me is tired of my list of symptoms. When they very kindly ask how I’m doing, I just say fine. Who wants to hear about my latest bit of weirdness?

Bear with me—I promise this isn’t just me calling for the “wha”mbulance, as Schmutzie at Schmutzie.com would say. What a fab site, by the way.

One “positive” (that doesn’t seem like the correct word) note is the number of blogs I’ve discovered about people with similar health problems. Dozens of people blog about migraine, for instance. I’m comforted when I read about the therapies migraineurs have used. I can try some of the suggestions they have for coping with headaches. 

The women who write about menopause are truly brave. My favorite is on Blogher.com -- Virginia at the Home-Reared Chef. Hi, Virginia! You rock! You have mad writing skills, lady!

I don’t care what anyone says, it’s still taboo in most circles to bring up menopause. It’s the elephant in the room that we menopausal women are supposed to pretend doesn’t impact our lives. Even other women can be quite judgmental. Just because they breezed through menopause without a tremor doesn’t mean that some of us aren’t experiencing a daily earthquake. For years at a time.

These health blogs about menopause, migraine, depression, and more, help put my troubles in perspective. Help keep me going. I’m not happy that they are sick, but I appreciate that these bloggers share how they manage. Makes me feel less alone. Like maybe I can get through this, one day at a time.

Some people count themselves lucky for a few hours a month that are free from migraine. I’m not in that bad of a place, even though the place I’m in does stink. Some people can’t get out of bed because of depression. I cried my way to work more days than I can count in the last year, but thanks to 4 prescription meds I was able to get out of bed and go to work. 

Some people would be appalled if they knew that I’m taking a lot of prescription drugs. I haven’t told more than a couple friends just how many I’m taking. Sometimes I feel very defensive about my drug therapies, but someone who has not experienced clinical depression has NO right to judge us. 

Before this bout with depression (menopause related) I had no idea of the physical, crushing sensation in one’s chest that is possible with depression. The debilitating nature of insomnia. Or how the tears could just start flowing apropos of nothing. How you can’t just “get a grip” or “snap out of it.” I’ve learned that positive self-talk is good, I have little mantras to use when it’s a particularly bad moment, can drop my mind into guided imagery, but I know in my heart without the drugs I might not (almost certainly would not) be making it. How sweet it would be if a little exercise, sunlight, and St. John’s wort would make it all better, but this depression did not respond to milder remedies.

I’ve learned a lot from being depressed. I was never that much of a believer in “better living through chemistry.” But NOW: if a chemical cocktail can keep me functioning, out of a psych ward, and spare me from Electro Convulsive Therapy, then get out of my way as I head to the CVS. 

I have a lot of students who are struggling with depression, PTSD, and a laundry list of other health problems. Some students are very upfront about their battles, some, like me, try to fly under the radar. I understand them all a little better since I’ve had these health battles over the past years. 

When someone I meet, perhaps a checker in a store, seems to be having a bad day, I try to understand that she/he might REALLY BE HAVING A HORRIBLE DAY AND JUST TRYING TO SURVIVE ONE MINUTE AT A TIME. She might be battling depression, menopause, some critical illness, OR have a loved one who is battling one or more of those issues.

I try to remember to offer a kind word. From time-to-time a stranger says something particularly kind to me, out of the blue. It helps. For a minute, the world brightens. Maybe that’s one of the not-so-little reasons we’re here on this planet?